


Play the Hand You're Dealt

by maxxrose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angry Derek Hale, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Stiles, Dark, Epic Bromance, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hunters are the Monsters, Kidnapping, Liam and Stiles feels, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Pack Feels, Protective Scott, Psychological Trauma, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Good Friend, Sorry Not Sorry, Stiles Stilinski is Not Amused, Stiles is trying not to lose his shit, Torture, Werewolf Hunters, Wolf Pack, Worried Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxxrose/pseuds/maxxrose
Summary: When they come for Stiles and Liam, it's at a goddamn library.The Hunters are well on their way to wipe out as many Supernaturals in Beacon Hills as they can track down, and what better way to lure out the famed True Alpha, than to take his best friend and his beta?They obviously lack the essential research skills Stiles is always telling everyone about though, because the Hunters don't take into account that Derek Hale will do anything to get Stiles back.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura
Comments: 24
Kudos: 191





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles slams the pile of books onto the table, and levels a glare at Liam, trying not to feel too happy when he successfully makes the younger kid flinch a little. 

"What," Liam says, scowling lightly. "I can't do it, okay? There. You got me."

Stiles throws up his hand in frustration, and the pen in his hand flies across the room and nearly smacks another library lategoer in the head but lands somewhere on the floor. That hadn't been his intention, but it's still hilarious. The guy turns to stare at him in openmouthed shock, but his eyes are all dark and Stiles clears his throat, waving his hands apologetically even as he can't help laughing. 

"Sorry!" Stiles calls, trying not to grin. And failing. Scott always tells him he has a shitty serious face. "Sorry, man."

Liam snorts. "Nice. You could give Braeden a run for her money."

"Shut up," Stiles says, setting his hands down on the table and shoving the pile of books into Liam's face, not even bothering to mask his grin of satisfaction as the light dies in Liam's eyes and the boy groans, covering his face futilely with his hands. "Okay, come on. We have to finish reading. You haven't even learnt half the stuff on the Bestiary yet!"

"Why can't we just guess what kind of Supernatural they are when we meet them?" Liam whines, snagging the smallest book from the pile and flipping it open. "Where am I ever going to meet a," and he squints, " _Wendigo?"_

Stiles sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and reminds himself this is why he's never going to have kids. "Because, Liam, young, innocent baby Liam, knowing the difference between a Kanima and a Wendigo in a battle can save your life and keep your blood inside your body, where it belongs. Sound good? Start reading."

"But I can heal."

"Sure," Stiles says, leans down close. "That's literally what they all say. And they all change their minds pretty quick when the blood just _won't stay inside._ you know how many times I've come close to seeing Scott die? Like, countless. As many pages as there are in that book." 

"This book has twenty pages," Liam tells him, smirks a little and Stiles kind of wants to cuff the kid over his head. With claws. He makes a mental note to tell Scott to give him the bite as soon as possible.

"Read it. We're not leaving till you remember half of it." Stiles declares, sits on the table because screw it, it's after hours in the library and literally no one is there anymore, the assistant left because hey, Stiles is the _sheriff's_ kid and to hell with it if he can't pull rank. Or, you know, slyly name drop Sheriff Stilinski's name in his very smooth maneuver to convince the assistant to let them stay after hours.

Liam gives him a small growl but Stiles has lived around enough werewolves to remain completely unbothered by the grumpy teenager. Liam hunkers down, begins to read another book from the pile, occasionally letting out small sighs. There's not another pen to throw at Liam, so Stiles just starts wringing his hands, smirking in pleasure, because _pfft_ obviously Scott is exaggerating when he moans about how hard it is to make young wolves listen. Stiles has got it _down._ Liam has submitted to the dominance of The Stiles. Bored, he looks to his right, and notices the guy at the other table he nearly hit with his pen is gone. Dropping his hands to his sides, he frowns.

The library is empty except for the two of them. How come he didn't hear the guy get up and leave? Stiles twists around, raking his gaze past the back of the library, empty and dark. The only light showing is on the Assistant's desk, but the girl left an hour ago. 

The abandoned table is empty, but the guy's jacket is still hooked over the chair. And Stiles has been in enough scrapes, battles and wars, fights for his life to know that sometimes, a forgotten jacket on a chair is sometimes not just a forgotten jacket on a chair. 

"Stiles?" Liam asks, looking up sharply. 

Stiles makes a sharp noise of surprise in his throat that he immediately plays off as a cough, and glances expectantly at Liam, whose nostrils are flared. 

"Why're are you nervous?" Liam says, pushing the book away curiously. 

Stiles slowly gets up, flitting his eyes carefully towards the edges of his vision, towards the darkness shrouding the bookshelves, and the eerie silence of the building. The feeling of uneasiness in his gut gets heavier, and Stiles tries to ignore it, telling himself it's nothing. The guy could've just gone to the bathroom. But the niggling voice in his head intensifies, and he moves towards Liam, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I don't know," he says, tapping warily. "Uh, just a feeling, I guess. The guy I threw my pen at is gone."

Liam raises an eyebrow. "Okay. Maybe he went home? It's nearly eight."

"You know what," Stiles says, keeping his gaze on one particularly menacing looking bookshelf. Man, he should've brought his bat. Apparently, bringing a baseball bat wherever you go generally comes off as 'threatening', according to all his friends and his Dad. "Let's go. We can finish the research some other night." Stiles can't seem to shake off that crawling feeling down his back. 

"Really," Liam says, looking deceptively too happy as he flips the book shut and gathers the pile in his arm, slugging his backpack over his shoulder in a fluid movement. Stiles rolls his eyes at the grin on the kid's face. "Cool, I'll text Scott, let him know we can make it to dinner tonight."

Then Liam digs around in his pocket, and around the same time he fishes it out and brandishes the phone at Stiles like some sort of prize is the same moment Stiles looks past Liam's shoulder, just by chance, and spots a glint of silver in the shadows and he's already moving, wrapping his arms around Liam's waist and bowling the both of them down just as a crossbow buries itself in the wall opposite them.

The room erupts in a flurry of motion and sounds. 

A man yells, "Shoot to wound, not to kill!"

Stiles yanks Liam backwards, hauling them both behind a table and Stiles reaches up to push it over, using it as cover as another the sound of another crossbow fires through the air and thunks into the wood. Hands shaking, he tries to fumble to get to his phone to call Scott or Derek, but Liam's furious growl resonates through the air and something really _heavy_ crashes into the table they're sheltering behind and the phone is knocked out of his hands and Stiles swears, scrambling for it. 

Liam is wolfed out, claws flashing as he releases a fierce snarl that suggests anyone who is coming after them have better prepared for a fight. Out of the corner of his eye Stiles sees Liam leap over the table and onto a man dressed in black combat gear, and the fear that courses him when a second man approaches the two tussling is distinct, and it's _real._

"Liam!" Stiles yells, glancing desperately around for something he can use to defend themselves with. The huge Encyclopedia book Liam had sworn never to read gleams tauntingly at him and Stiles grabs it, staggering to his feet and crossing the distance between him and the man Liam knocks to the floor with a clawed hand within a few steps to break the book over his head. 

The man gives out a sharp cry of surprise with one knee down on the floor and drags a crossbow into view and Stiles yells at that, kicks it out of his hands. Liam takes the chance to trade in a few blows and uppercuts that sends the assailant to the ground, blood and spittle flying from his mouth. Stiles backs away, heart beating furiously against his chest as Liam roars, eyes blazing golden, the sound shaking the very foundation of the building as the young wolf flies through the air towards the second man.

Stiles falls to the floor, desperate, searching the carpet among the scattered debris and fallen chairs and destroyed tables. He needs to find his phone and call Scott, or Derek, or somebody because no way there are just two of these goons. 

He _really_ doesn't see it coming when a boot comes flying out of nowhere, connecting with his jaw and sending a bolt of pain straight to his skull and Stiles is thrown to the floor as something metal and _hard_ hits his back repeatedly, causing an explosion of agony that blazes from his toes right to his head, sending his vision washing white for a second. 

He is dimly aware of Liam screaming, _"Stiles!"_

No. Liam. He can't let Liam be hurt, or die on his watch, because Scott will murder him and okay, Stiles is getting fond of the little brat. But he's not admitting that. Stiles wills himself to look up, hands curling in the carpet to find a better grip. His vision is blurry, but he thinks he can see Liam fighting two heavily armed men, claws slashing wildly in the air and fangs bright in the blackness, but then someone dark and big comes up behind Liam and Stiles tries to scream, to _warn him_ but all that comes out of his throat is a wheeze and Liam goes down then too, crumpling to the floor and Stiles _screams._

 _No. Liam._ Liam. He thinks that may have made it out his throat, because he faintly registers Liam turning his face, blue eyes swimming with terror, mouth open like he's trying to shout. 

Then someone grips Stiles by the waist and flips him onto his back and he lets out a strangled yelp of pain, because _oh_ at least two of his ribs are broken and his jaw is firmly bruised and _holy shit his back._ The punch that comes next, crashing into his cheekbone, is definitely a real stunner. Liam's howl echoes in his ears, and Stiles _struggles,_ because those men are doing something to his friend, to his innocent, baby wolf-brother and he's not going to let them get away with that. 

But a weight descends onto his chest, cutting off his thought, and Stiles can't breathe anymore. He sucks the air in, eyes wide, pupils blown, but the air isn't _getting in_ and it feels like he's drowning. Stiles weakly reaches up, hands grasping around a leg, and okay, there's a boot. It's a boot pressing down on his lungs and inhibiting his ability to breathe.

"Don't," Stiles hisses, letting his head fall back onto the floor as a fresh wave of pain cascades over his skull. Goddamn it. Derek will never let him out of the house again, and Scott will probably make him learn how to fight. "D-don't, hurt him."

"Who?" the voice above him is unbothered, empty of remorse and it sends shivers down Stiles' back. It sounds like Deucalion. It sounds like Kate Argent. It sounds like every bad guy ever who's tried to hurt him or his family, who's _enjoyed_ inflicting pain, who's had little aversion to murder and could very easily tear his throat out right now without blinking. 

"Liam," Stiles rasps, spots entering his vision. Yeah, that's no good. Internal bleeding? His mouth tastes tangy, metallic like blood, and groans, feeling the blood drip from his lips. That's no good either. "J-just let him go."

"But we came for you both," and the boot presses down harder, right onto his cracked ribs and Stiles tips his head back and tries really hard not to scream, burning hot white searing through his body. There's a sound of scuffling nearby, it's probably Liam, trying to get free, and Stiles grins through the agony when he hears a very angry werewolf snarl echo in the air. The voice above him sounds irritated, "Just knock that one out. Get more than one hit in, he's a wolf."

"And the one under you?" A woman's voice. 

"Oh," and the boot _twists._ Stiles' grip on the boot loosens, and the pain is throbbing now, overwhelming every one of his thoughts. "This one's just human. Weak. Vulnerable. And so very, very fragile."


	2. Chapter 2

When Stiles comes to, the dull ache has intensified to a throbbing that materializes into a blaze of agony that leaves him gasping. So he resolves not to move for the remainder of his five-star stay vacation in this dark, grey hole, and remain frozen for the time being. The pounding in his head grows. There's a ringing in his head, like something metal is being dragged across the floor and Stiles blinks his eyes open, and the world is bleary.

He's in some sort of cell. Grey, flat ground, shrouded in a blur and rank darkness. 

Dampness hangs in the air, sending droplets of sweat trailing down the back of his neck and the feeling starts to come back into his fingers, his toes, and any movement sets off a pang of pain he really isn't looking forward to see what the cause of it is. 

The events of last night rushes through his head, the armed men, the crossbows, the very violent _kidnapping_ of him and Liam. Stiles shoots upright in his flurry, and regrets it when his back does some kind of bullshit where it doesn't go straight and the following groan of pain is low and long. 

_Liam._

Stiles turns his head, because they have to be together, right? And the drop of relief in his gut is overwhelming as he spots Liam curled up in a tight ball a few steps to his right, but the feeling of happiness and gratitude that at least they ended up in the same place and Stiles can at least _try_ to protect him in here is washed away when he notices the splotches of purple and blue bruises crawling up his shoulders, patching his skin dark in the shadows. 

Then he's reminded of his own. 

Stiles touches his own ribs, winces at the skin that _hurts_ just to the touch, and timidly draws a finger over his jaw and cheekbone, sighing inwardly at the lump of a bruise and what he can only assume to be a spectacular black eye. 

Stiles shakes it off. "Liam," he whispers, muscling through the pain as he gets halfway to his feet and sort of hobbles to the werewolf. The soft whimper that comes from Liam is enough for Stiles to close his eyes momentarily, but he doesn't let go. "Liam, wake up, buddy. Come on."

He manages to pry Liam's head away from his knees and the werewolf uncurls, startling awake and Stiles manages to reel back just in time to avoid his throat torn out by claws.

"Liam! Woah, woah, Liam, easy there, buddy, it's just me," Stiles croaks out, hands bracing himself off the cold concrete floor. 

The young wolf looks scared, but angry, and his eyes are already glowing a pale golden, fangs protruding from the top of his lips. But the spark of recognition in his gaze reassures Stiles that Liam now has a better chance of _not_ tearing him to pieces.

"Stiles," Liam grunts, eyes fading back to his natural blue. "Where—" and Liam breaks off, clutching at his side in pain. Stiles immediately drops to his knees and after a brief moment of eye contact that hopefully communicates just how much Stiles wants to live and avoid getting mauled, Liam rests his back against the concrete wall and hauls up half his shirt. Stiles swallows back a gasp.

"Is it bad?" the younger boy asks, frowning, lines on his face etched tight. "It's not... it doesn't feel like..."

"It's healing," Stiles finishes, dread looming heavy in his gut. The gash on Liam's abdomen is raw, skin torn open, and pooling with still-warm blood. It's deep, and Stiles holds up a hand and looks to the side, trying to breathe through the nausea. He's never been good with wounds and blood, and hell, even Scott knows this. Derek, especially, knows it. 

Liam reaches out. "Are you okay? Stiles. Breathe."

Stiles sucks in a desperate breath after tearing his eyes away from the mangled flesh, willing the bile back down his throat. 

"That's it," Liam continues encouragingly, gripping him on the shoulder. "You're so strong. Just breathe."

Stiles recovers enough to glare thinly at the young wolf. Liam just grins. 

"Am I okay," Stiles says, running a hand over his hair. "You're the one with your stomach sliced up and you're asking if I'm okay? Liam, God. Why aren't you healing? Is it, is it food or something? Let me try yelling for food and water. These bastards that caught us probably want us alive, and if you die from a bacterial infection, it won't help anyone."

"I'm okay," Liam says, sounding resolute. "Don't call anyone. I'll heal."

"What if they poisoned you?" Stiles argues, trying to push down the panic. Now is _not_ the time to panic. They've likely been kidnapped, stuffed in an unknown place, and probably not in Beacon Hills anymore. If Stiles panics, it's all over for them. Liam dying of wolfsbane would be the cherry on top. "How do you know if it's wolfsbane?"

Liam chuckles dryly, gingerly touches his side. "I'm pretty sure it'd be a lot more painful. A _lot_ more painful _._ Right now it feels like... it feels like my body is trying to heal, but it's slow."

"But at least it's trying," Stiles says, still doubtful. "Okay, fine, fine. We can work with that. You have any idea where we are? Or who the hell would want to kidnap two scrawny teenagers? Are your sharp werewolf senses telling us anything?" He is stupidly grateful that at least their captors haven't separated them, because let's face it, Stiles is but a fragile 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. There's not a lot of defense involved. 

"We're... we're underground," Liam says, pulling himself to his feet even as blood trickles from his open wound. Stiles can't stand it so he focuses on a bright grey patch on the wall. "I can smell it, the dampness of the earth."

Stiles holds out a hand. "Liam, Liam c'mere," and then rips off the lower portion of his shirt and holds the strip up. "I'm gonna pack the wound. Hopefully you'll stop bleeding over this beautiful floor. Concrete tiles are a bitch to remake." Liam gives him a lofty look that translates to some stubborn version of _I'm a werewolf, I can heal, blood is my bitch,_ but Stiles is not putting up with this healing factor all of his Supernatural friends have that make them so bloody confident. Even when they're _not_ healing. But Stiles just looks at the rag, to Liam's bloody gash bleeding through his bloody shirt, to the rag again, and the fight is won. Liam gives an insufferable sigh and lifts his shirt. 

It's a messy job, one that gets sticky blood all over his fingers and Stiles grimaces, kind of tries not to breathe when he's patching the kid up, and at the last knot tightening over Liam's skin, the young wolf lets out a soft growl of pain. Stiles sits back, wiping his hands on his pants. Well. He can't deny his life is interesting. How many teenagers get to say they've successfully treated a wound of a werewolf, more than once?

"Thanks," Liam says, letting his shirt back down. "Where'd you learn that?"

"Please," Stiles sniffs, sinking to the floor as Liam goes back to pacing around the cell. "Scott's my best friend, Derek is kind of my boyfriend, and you all seem to attract trouble like super magnets."

"You think they'll come for us?" Liam murmurs, wrapping his hands around the metal bars. Stiles looks at him, and at least the makeshift tourniquet is holding, so he feels good about that, and the only reason why Stiles isn't making him sit his ass down is because the blood isn't flowing anymore and looks rather sluggish instead. 

"Of course they'll come for us," Stiles reassures as best he can, adopting his best comforting voice as possible. "Don't even worry about it. I'm sure Scott is sniffing for us right now, and Derek is snarling at everything in sight. They're a fun pair. Lydia and Malia are probably just trying to keep the peace, and find us in the process."

There's a twinge of pain in his chest, and Stiles ignores it. 

"You're in pain," Liam says suddenly, looming above him. 

Stiles squints, looking up, and wonders when he sat down. "Nah, I'm 'kay."

"Are you?" Liam questions, kneeling down beside him, a familiar expression of worry taking over his face. "I can hear your heartbeat, it's faster than normal."

"You mean faster than usual, considering I'm a hyperactive spaz?" Stiles laughs, lets his hands drop in between his knees, blinking to keep his head clear against the onslaught of the sickly feeling spreading through his body. His skin feels clammy. The air in the cell is humid. Hardly the five-star hotel Stiles is always telling his friends they should go to. 

"You smell sick," Liam tells him softly. "Like in pain. Where?"

The kid is obviously not giving up. Stiles makes a face. "Just my ribs, my back, and the entirety of my skull. It'll be fine, just feels like a massive migraine. You figure anything out about this place other than the fact that it's underground?" He deflects, because he's good at it. He also wants to get them the hell out of here. 

In unison, they both turn to look around the cell. Metal bars close them in, shiny and streaked with clawmarks and old scratches. Outside the cell, a small space and then the only exit and entrance, a large steel door, with bolts and a grimy window. The sight makes his blood go cold and Stiles takes in a breath, exchanging a glance with Liam, who looks equally worried. 

"There's been others," Stiles says, voice trembling. "Okay, yeah, no, this is bad. Hell no, we are _so_ not dying in a room like this. I will not have 'Died in a Grey Box' as my cause of death on a coroner's report, or on my gravestone." He touches the walls, grimacing at the icy coldness of the concrete, notes the clawmarks, scratches, splotches of dried blood and worn material on the floors and walls. If they're underground, then there's a level above them. "Liam, those people came after us with crossbows and guns, right?"

He turns back, and Liam nods, gestures to himself. "Yeah, silver crossbows. And one guy had a knife."

"Hunters." Stiles tells him, eyes wide. "Hunters took us."

"Hunters, you mean like Argent?" Liam says, standing and then doing a slow whirl of the room, eyes tracking every surface. "We don't know another Hunter family beside the Argents and Calaveras, and both have never tried to hurt us. Well, recently."

"Then it's a different group of Hunters," Stiles breathes. "Technically, that's worse. When they got us, I heard a woman near you, but the three you fought were guys, right?" at Liam's nod, he continues. "Then including the guy who got me, that's a full Hunter tact team. Which means it wasn't a normal Hunting session or whatever, because they would've left our bodies in that library riddled with silver bullets."

"It was planned," Liam says, blue eyes narrowing. "They targeted _us._ The guy you said who your pen nearly hit? Probably one of them, to check if we were the ones they wanted. I think I smelled him before I was knocked out."

"I knew it," Stiles says. "Always be suspicious of forgotten jackets."

"What?" 

"Nothing," Stiles says, waving his hand. He feels proud though, because his instincts were right, and he's not even a wolf. "Okay. You know what we need to do? We need to find out what they want."

And if what the Hunters want is the location of the best bakery in Beacon Hills, Stiles would be more than happy to provide the location of Derry's Sweets because Hunter or not, no one should be deprived of Derry's fantastic sweets. Or even if they wanted directions to the nearest Hotdog stand. Granted, the best Hotdog stand in Beacon Hills is halfway to the nearest county, but Stiles would be glad to offer it, because he's a good persona and nice like that. It's risky, calling out people who possibly want to kill him and Liam, but the alternative of sitting on their asses in a concrete prison with no indication of time or intention is just as appalling. 

Liam is looking at him like he's lost his mind. "What? No, what if they like, I don't know, prod us with electrical rods?"

Stiles nods. "Wow. That's surprisingly accurate. Derek told you that, hm? It's what the Calaveras did. If Derek can get through it, so can we." and he moves to the bars, peering to the metal door between them and freedom. 

Liam rushes to him, blue eyes alarmed. "No, no, we can't. We're not Derek. You're at least a hundred pounds lighter. Stiles, if a Hunter electrocutes you to the point of death and Derek and Scott finds us and _I'm_ still alive, I will have survived these Hunters for nothing!"

"First of all," Stiles tells him, smiling. "I'm eighty pounds lighter. Or eight hundred. And have some optimism, will you? Turning into a werewolf gave you heightened abilities superior to that of a normal human being, everything except your _positivity."_

"Stiles!"

"Hey!" Stiles shouts, turning back in the direction of the metal door. "Hey, hello! Kidnappers! Captors! What do you want from us? Huh? Is it my intelligence? Do you need help planning a heist or something? Do you want Liam's hair? I know it's really nice, but this kind of force wasn't necessary to get it! He'll give it to you for free. Either tell us what _you want_ , or let us the hell out of here!"

Liam pulls him back, face slack in shock. "You have the worst self-preservation instincts I've ever seen, and our friends are literally self sacrificial," and he sounds scared and frustrated, but also faintly impressed. "And I'm not giving anyone my hair."

"Thanks, buddy," he says, trying to grin. "C'mon. It's for charity!"

"No one's coming," Liam sighs, tightens his grip on the bars, claws grating against the metal. "They didn't hear you." 

"Can you break it?" Stiles says, gesturing to the bars. If Liam manages to break a metal bar off, it would be a great replacement for his bat. 

Liam sighs. He narrows his eyes, glowing golden, and grits his teeth before exerting his strength onto the bars, grunting with the effort. The metal whines, and there's a spark or two that flies onto his shirt that Stiles quickly snuffs out, but after a full minute that feels like hours to Stiles, Liam lets go, expression dejected as his hands fall to his sides. 

"I can't," Liam says, eyebrows furrowing. "We're stuck here."

"It's okay," Stiles says, touching the scarred metal, dashed with clawmarks and scrapes. "We're not the first ones to try, and definitely not the first to fail."

Something clangs near the metal door. Stiles freezes, Liam freezes, and then he's pushing Liam backwards until the both of them are standing in the farthest corner from the bars, backs against the wall. Liam turns to the door, claws gleaming, and opens his mouth to release a thunderous, warning roar that makes Stiles' heart beat a little faster. The sound echoes in the cell, and it's silent. 

And then a deafening clamor, of many steel bolts being pushed, and the door slowly swings open to reveal a woman, clad in a sleek black outfit, combat boots, and a belt that makes her look like the poster child for healthy Hunters. 

"Always the comedic relief," she says, stepping inside. "Stiles Stilinski. Liam Dunbar. My, did people exaggerate your prowess."

Stiles struggles to ignore the fear thrumming in his chest, and grips Liam's wrist as the boy growls, fangs shining in the darkness. "What," he says, trying to keep his voice light. "My prowess? That's uh, sweet of you to think I have a prowess. Research, maybe, I'm good at that. Also with a baseball bat. And I _always_ come up with a plan."

"Oh?" the woman says, flashing a smile with too many teeth as she comes to a stop a meter away from their cell. "A Man with a Plan. I'm talking about your pack's prowess. Everyone's heard of Beacon Hills, you know."

Liam bares his fangs, a growl rippling through his shoulders. "What the hell do you want?"

She switches her gaze from Stiles to Liam, calm and cold, and Stiles can _see_ the ruthlessness in her eyes. "My name is Nadia. It's nice to meet you."

"I regret to say it's not _quite_ a pleasure to meet you," Stiles shoots back, standing his ground. 

"Are we not going to at least try to engage in a cordial discussion?" Nadia says, tipping her head to the side. There's a gun strapped to her hip, and if he's right, Stiles can see the tip of a second one peeking from behind her back. She's armed, but she's not going to draw on them. For some reason, they're still in the talking phase. 

"No," Liam says aggressively, barely managing to hide the fact he's simmering in fury. "Why'd you take us?"

"You must be the Beta with anger issues," and at Liam's responding growl, a satisfied smile curves her lips. Stiles shakes his head at Liam, willing the kid not to lose it, because that's what the Hunters want. "Because of Scott McCall." Nadia says, a flat expression overtaking her features, and Stiles looks back at her. "The True Alpha, the only one to exist, in _centuries."_

Of course it's about Scott. Stiles wrinkles his nose, inches forward so he's partially blocking Liam from her view. 

"It's always about Scott," Stiles complains, turning to throw his hands in the air dramatically. "It's never about us, Liam. This sucks. You suck," he says, glaring at the woman. "There is _no_ originality in your approach here at all. You know Liam and I are functioning members of his pack, right? We're not cripples."

Liam glances at him, eyes still gold, but calmer. Still looking confused. That's good enough, Stiles thinks. 

He puts his hands on his hips expectantly. 

A look of amusement shadows Nadia's stoney face. "Oh, no, you are anything but a cripple. You _do_ have a use. To us."

"You're a Hunter, right?" Stiles says, stepping up right to the bars. "We're friends with Argent. He's a Hunter. You should be a little bit like Argent."

"I know all about Argent," she says, tone smooth and even. "A disgrace to our traditions. To his family, to the memories of his dead family. Just an example of what happens when people like us associate with people like _you._ When werewolves get a little too out of _control."_

"What," Liam grits out, lips curling. "Do you want. From us."

"I want everything on your pack," she replies, a giddy gleam entering her eyes. "I want to know everything about Scott McCall. But more than that, I think I want to test how _important_ you are to Scott McCall and your beloved pack."

"If you want Scott so much," Stiles says, already deciding he hates this woman. "Then why aren't you going after him?"

"Everyone who's tried that has failed miserably, no?" The woman tells him, menacingly flicks a lint off her shoulder. Stiles kind of feels bad for the lint. "We're planning... a different route, if you will."

He stills, and something in him goes cold. Nadia smiles. 

"We're not going after him. He's going to come to _us."_


	3. Chapter 3

" _Control_ yourself, Derek," Scott growls, irises glowing a faint red. 

Derek can't think of anything else, except _Stiles._ Except Stiles being in danger, hurt, or maybe even _dead,_ and Derek is in Scott's house doing absolutely nothing about it. Images of Stiles fills his brain, of him dancing to Funky Town, of him forcing Derek to eat a marshmallow, and about a million other memories of them together. Scott's grabbing at his shoulders, growl growing stronger, but Derek isn't listening and neither is his wolf. His wolf is pacing, vibrating with fear and fury and _get mate back._

Derek squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the marble counter behind him. His claws slide out, and after a moment there's a distinct crack behind him and Lydia swears.

"Derek, get off," Lydia says, keeping her voice light as she gently shoves him away from the counter. "Mom's gonna kill me if you break another one of her kitchen counters."

"I only broke it _once,"_ Derek grits out, clenching his teeth together as a violent surge of loss nearly bowls him over, and a roar is working through his chest. His fangs protrude from his mouth. Lydia backs away, eyes wide. There's a loud growling, and after a second Derek realizes it's him. 

"Once was enough," Lydia says, then glances at Scott. "Calm him down! He's wolfing out!"

"He's not listening!" Scott tells her, voice rising, the exact moment Derek wolfs out.

The loss of control feels like going through an ocean wave. 

It seeps through his body, every orifice of his skin, and then the anxiety, pain, terror hits him and his wolf _howls._ Howls for Stiles, and Derek's heart is breaking all over again because he's lost anyone who's ever mattered to him, over, and over again, and this time it's going to be _Stiles._ Derek doesn't know if he can make it if Stiles is the one who leaves him. It was always supposed to be the other way around. 

_"Derek!"_

Scott's roar pierces through his brain and Derek stumbles back, hitting something metal, and then he glances up, heart beating wildly, and Scott is right in front of him, hands up. Lydia stands behind Scott, worried, and mouths something unintelligible. Derek can't hold back the snarl ripping through his throat and curls his fists tightly, because his wolf is desperately trying to find Stiles, seek out his scent, _anything._

A blinding pain explodes on the side of his neck. Derek whips around, baring his fangs.

Malia stands her ground, lips pulled back to show teeth. "Hey!"

Derek breathes long and hard, gripping his own face with his hands. Inhales.

_Control. Control. Control._

_Alpha, Beta, Omega._

Derek exhales. 

_Stiles._

He opens his eyes, and his fangs and claws are receding, sinking back.

"You didn't have to hit him," Scott tells Malia, once Derek's calmed down. 

She grins, satisfied. "It worked, didn't it?"

"I guess so," Lydia ventures, stepping forward and touching Derek's arm gently. "Are you okay now? Come on," she says, leading him to the kitchen island and seating him on a seat. "You want a drink or something?"

"Water, please." Derek mutters, running a hand over his face. His wolf whines, still anxious, still desperate to _find._ Derek hums low under his breath, willing his heartbeat back to a normal rate. The emotions are still riding high, thrumming underneath his skin, frantic for an outlet. _God._

Scott sidles up, face drawn. Derek looks up at him, _really_ looks at him, and sees the dark bags under his eyes, the bloodshot vessels in his eyes, and the sag of his shoulders. The haggard weariness of his face. Scott's lost people too. And now his Beta, and his best friend, are both missing. And the toll it's taking on Scott is clear. 

"I haven't seen you lose control like that for a long time," Scott says softly. 

Derek snorts. "I'm surprised you're keeping it together."

The dark look in Scott's eye tells him enough. 

Lydia sets a glass of water down beside him, and Derek nods gratefully. "You both _have_ to keep it together. For their sake. We need to find them."

"I've asked Argent for help," Scott says, adopting that signature _We're gonna do something_ look. "He'll help us look for clues, and he'll meet us here within the hour. Derek, don't worry. We're gonna find them."

"So what do we know so far?" Malia asks, settling on the opposite chair. "We know Stiles and Liam were at the library last night. They never came home for dinner."

When Stiles hadn't answered his call last night, the tension had already settled deep in Derek's gut. All day, he hadn't been able to shake the dread, the foreboding feeling that somewhere, something bad was about to happen. Or had already happened. The Pack had been meeting at Scott's house, for Movie Night, and after thirty minutes with both Stiles and Liam not answering their phones, all of them were visibly concerned. Anyone else would've said, 'traffic', 'battery died', or 'I don't know, they're just late?' but their Pack knew better. 

Scott and Derek had gone to the library to see if the two were still there. 

They'd opened the door, and immediately sensed it. Something had happened in the library. Scott had ran in, eyes bright red, Derek right at his heels. They'd barreled to a stop, and the destruction before them stabbed fear in his heart. Chairs, broken apart, tables on their sides, riddled with bullet holes. Crossbow bolts buried in cracked drywall. The drops of blood sunk into the carpet, the rising _terror_ that balled up something grim in his throat as Derek knew, with full certainty, it was Stiles' blood. And a few feet to the left, a splatter, that was Liam's. Scott had closed his eyes, and Derek had smelled his pain, too. 

"They wanted us to find the library like that," Scott says, voice grave. "We found their bolts. The casings of their bullets. But nothing identifiable. Either custom-made, or just ghost manufactured."

"Hunters sending a message," Derek tells them, and he feels hollow. "I've seen enough to know what they look like." 

Malia rubs her hands over her eyes, sighing. "I tried tracking them last night. Didn't get far, they vanished right off the back property."

"Security cameras?" Lydia asks. "There has to be footage, right? We have to get it."

"I checked," Derek says, and the anger is back, simmering under his skin. His wolf stirs, he tenses his shoulders. It's useless. They won't find anything, because these Hunters, they came with a _plan,_ and they knew exactly what they were doing when they took Stiles and Liam and left a broken library behind. "I checked this morning, and I couldn't find anything. The tape was tampered."

"Argent might know who these Hunters are," Scott says, looking hopeful. He straightens, glancing around the table. "He might even know where they are. Maybe even contact them."

"We don't even know if they're alive," Derek growls, can feel his eyes flashing hot blue. "They might be dead. Those Hunters might have tortured them already, gotten what they needed, and left Stiles and Liam's _corpses_ somewhere in the goddamn forest."

Scott winces, like Derek's just physically hit him. "They're not," and the earnesty in his voice _infuriates_ Derek. "I'd know it. I'd sense it. They're _not."_

Lydia shakes her head, glancing up at the ceiling. "Derek, they're not dead. As long as we find them," and she turns, bracing her hands on the kitchen countertop, and stares Derek down. "So we _have_ to find them. Places that might be a Hunter hideout. Suspicious vehicles, suspicious newcomers anyone might have seen. Any contacts Argent might have. And the Sheriff still doesn't know, so we have to tell him. He can help us."

And Lydia's a Banshee, so if Stiles and Liam are dead, she'd be the first to know, right? Derek can't breathe anymore, every breath into his throat keeps getting harder. And then the thought of Stiles' Dad, Sheriff Stilinski, who trusted Derek to take care of his son, to _protect_ his son, discovering that Stiles might be dead and might be hurt a thousand different ways digs thorns deep into his skin and twists, leaves scores on his heart. Scott's staring right at him like he's waiting to be told what to do, face contorted in worry. Scott, out of all of them, is the worst at hiding his emotions. Apathy isn't Scott. 

He's not their Alpha, he knows that, not anymore. Scott's the True Alpha, but he's young and soft, claws still inexperienced. And they're all looking to him for support, for directions, and he doesn't know if he holds the strength to be _that_ Derek, when that Derek always had his Stiles beside him. 

"Why'd they take Stiles?" Derek says, voice a little flatter than it should be. "Let's look at this objectively."

What he's saying, what he hopes he doesn't have to say aloud, is that Stiles is the weakest of them all. 

The most _fragile._

So why take a mere human when you could have werewolves?

Lydia, bless her practical soul, gets it. "I think..." and it looks like it pains her to say it. "I think they took him to get to us." She glances at Derek, wary like she thinks he might start swinging. "Stiles is human, therefore he's the easiest target, means less collateral damage for them, and and also the one that we, collectively as a Pack, will try harder to get back."

Lydia's ability to be coldly objective has always unnerved Derek, but this is one of the times he has to admit that it's one of the biggest strengths Lydia brings to the Pack. 

Scott looks a little sick, green around the edges. "They took Stiles to get to us?"

Derek remembers telling Stiles that exact phrase, warns him he's the weakest link. Stiles had looked at Derek a little sadly, told him that he hadn't wanted to be apart of the Pack if it meant he'd be pulling them down and Derek had growled at that, at the _thought_ of this little human with stars in his touch and lightning in his head and a smile fond enough to tear down all of Derek's defenses in a split second thinking they were too good for him. Derek remembers training, trading blow for blow, hit for hit with Stiles, who had sported a bloody lip but glared at him with molten fire in his eyes and demanded a rematch. 

Derek remembers touching Stiles' face, almost reverently.

Smiles, tells him, "Stiles. Torture is training," he says. "They'll train you like a dog."

Stiles had curled his lip, a cocky smirk on his mouth and a dare in his eyes and Derek had thought he looked more fierce in that single moment than Scott roaring with his claws out. 

Malia shrugs, stilted and stares hard at the floor like it's done something to personally offend her. "It makes sense. Stiles because he's human, we'll try harder to get him back. Liam's our Beta. They're targeting us, and you know what," she says it like a horrible revelation, turning to Scott. "It's probably you, too."

"What do you mean it's me?" Scott says, defensively. "What are you—"

"They want you," Lydia says, rolling her eyes. "True Alpha. It's more of a curse than a blessing."

"Hunters," Malia cuts in. "Of course they want you. Hunters like that, they're business and they're lethal. Now what's a bigger target than capturing a True Alpha, the first one in a century? They'd be legends. They got Scott McCall when everyone else failed."

Scott's head whips from side to side, eyes growing wide, and Derek resists the urge to throw something at the kid, and succeeds, because when they find Stiles and Scott decides to snitch, Derek really doesn't want to end up sleeping on the couch because Derek 'attacked' Stiles' best friend. 

"Oh my God," Scott moans, long and drawn out in guilt. " _Goddammit."_

Derek's skin crawls. 

The monotony of this situation, of them just standing around in Lydia's kitchen island with their heads in their hands instead of going out there, going after Stiles and Liam, wreaking havoc in their path is driving Derek _crazy._ And he's not like this, usually. Sure, he's passionate and reckless at times, doesn't really think things through but he knows how to strategize, go into the fire with a _plan._

Now, he feels like properly abandoning 'the plan' and just getting Stiles and Liam _back._

His wolf snarls in agreement, pacing in his head like a timer set to explode. 

The back door clicks open, and Derek's wolf is so geared up he spins around, claws already extended, and this lack of control over himself is truly embarrassing because it's like Derek's sixteen again, young and messed in the head, raring to go and willing to fight to death to get what he wants. Talia, if she could see him now, would be disappointed and it's that thought that sobers him, makes him lower his hands, ashamed and with a pit in his stomach. 

Chris Argent stares at him, hand curled around his gun.

"Sorry," Scott says, seeming to snap out of his guilt-infested reverie. He hurries to Argent, apologetic, ushering the man to join them at the counter. "Derek's a little frustrated," and then smiles crookedly. "We all are, really."

"Thanks for coming," Malia says dryly. "Sorry Derek's being aggressive. Hormones, you know."

Argent shoots him a cautious side-eye, and even though he's a special breed of Hunter, doesn't draw his guns out around them anymore and treats them like partners, even like _friends,_ the instincts have never left him. 

Derek chooses to cross his arms with a stony silence in response. 

Lydia and Malia jump straight in, explaining the situation, and Argent's nodding with his hands clasped together and sympathy in his blue eyes when Lydia mentions _blood on the floor_ and _no trace of them, it was professional._

Derek can't take it anymore. He all but slams his hands onto the countertop, sends the pepper and salt bottles halfway across the table until Malia snatches them up with a tight glare sent in his direction. "Argent," he says, fighting to keep his voice controlled as it can be. "We need your help. They were taken by Hunters, and we think Scott is their end goal."

Argent's mouth thins into a straight line. "I wasn't aware of a new Hunter family in Beacon Hills or the county in general."

"Maybe you're not really in the circle anymore," Derek grits out. "But do you have contacts? People you can _ask?"_

"I have contacts," Argent tells them coolly. "I can ask them if they know about any new Hunter activity in the area."

There's a brief second of silence, where they all stare at him, expectant and waiting.

"Oh," Argent says. "You mean now." And at Lydia's cocked eyebrow that translates to _obviously,_ his mouth quirks in what seems to be a sheepish smile and he slips out the door, all stealth and quiet, phone already in his hand. 

Scott's hands are in his hair. He seems to deflate, elbows on the countertop. "This is my fault," and he sounds hollow, quiet and sad in a way Derek hasn't heard him sound like in a long, long time. 

"Scott," he makes himself move to Scott, gently touches his shoulder. "It's no one's fault but those fucking Hunters."

"Fucking Hunters is right," Lydia agrees, curling her fingers to examine her nails. "Don't blame yourself, Scott."

"If they get hurt," _if they die._ "because of me..." and Scott trails off, a little lost at the end. "We have to find them."

"That _is_ Plan A," Derek shrugs. "Unless, you know. You want to do something else."

Scott gives him a flat look, but it comes across as fond more than harsh. "Funny. Glad you're feeling better."

Argent stalks back inside, and the grimness of his face sets every nerve in Derek alight all over again. "Well," he starts, pocketing the phone and lifting his chin in a tired, 'not this shit again' look. "No one knows anything concrete. There's rumors, of a group that operates strictly on a military level. Ghosts. Professional team, which fits with the M.O, and it's speculated they're responsible for some of the murders last month in Toronto. And before that, Chicago."

Derek's stomach does some unnecessary bullshit where it flips and quenches, makes him want to positively throw up. "The murders in Toronto? _Fuck._ No one took responsibility for that, I thought it was a freak attack, not fucking part of some messed up agenda." If the same people who committed such violence have Stiles and Liam in their custody.... Derek's wolf whines, desperate and frenzied to get to their Stiles, their _mate._

Malia frowns, gets inbetween them. "What murders in Toronto?"

Lydia glances at her. "AA meeting, pretty well known in Toronto. A man and his human wife, and three other Weres. All killed in the same night." She shakes her head, solemn and regretful. "Two were in their mid-twenties, found with their throats slashed and shot twice in their apartments, and the others were in their forties, with kids, with families. It was terrible, cops say that the couple that died had so many lacerations on their bodies it was hard to identify them until their kid in his late _teens_ came looking for them." She looks to Derek, faint horror paling her face, "But I don't know about the ones in Chicago."

"Family massacred in their beds," Derek says, the words like acid on his tongue. "Three friends working for the TSA were found dead in an alley on their night out. All same night."

Scott makes a wrecked noise in his throat like he's been physically gutted. Malia closes her eyes briefly. 

Argent nods along, eyes tight. "No one took responsibility. But there were rumors, stuff that's been floated around and my contact says that whoever committed those murders could be the same people we're dealing with now. We don't know who they are, we don't know where they are, but my contact gave me a name, and a message."

Derek's heart is in his throat, but he asks anyway. "Who?"

"Bryan Bjarksen," Argent says, voice tense. "Don't know who he is, but my contact says if there's any Hunter group operating in the shadows in the county, this guy should know."

"He's a dealer," Malia says. "Bryan Bjarksen. We'll go after him."

Lydia keeps her carefully thoughtful gaze on Argent. "And the message?"

Argent stills. "My contact said, 'whoever these people are, if they're coming after you, you're already five steps behind'."


End file.
